


ghost of a rose

by sultrygoblin



Category: War Horse (2011)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22769143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: one shot - request - the war has taken much from everyone, you’re both glad to be one of the lucky few to get it back
Relationships: James Nicholls/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 9





	ghost of a rose

**Author's Note:**

> "Could I request a James Nicholls fic where he and reader are in a relationship and while he was at war reader found out she was pregnant so after years of fighting James comes back to see reader and their son" -anon

You sent letters often at the beginning, trying their best to be newlyweds through sweet words and promises of the future. Wasn’t it just the way, thinking you had more time? But news came, war was upon them and you both knew. There would be no long engagement, no parties, or a lavish ceremony. It hadn’t mattered, as long as he could call you his truly before he was forced to leave you. One week you spent as man and wife before it came time to serve his duty to King and country. He swore to come back, a promise that wasn’t his to make. He would, he would come back, if only spurred on by the memory of you and that bedroom you had hardly left those days.

The fighting is harder, more men fall, friends, brothers. It isn’t safe to send letters, not anymore. He tells you in the last one he manages to send before it became his world became a living hell. The only bits of sunshine were the thoughts of you. When you were hunkered down, depressed, sure that you would never make it out of the foxhole, you shared stories. He had always backed away from such talk but talking meant he could think of you more often. The scent of your hair surrounding him, you flesh pressed to his everywhere for the first time, maybe for the last time.

You had met in the market place. You were chasing your younger brother down, no sense of propriety as you shouted at him, mud splattering a dress that was far too beautiful for the treatment it was receiving. The boy had looked over his shoulder and gave James an opportunity, at that moment his entire life changed. He barely grunts when the small child barrels into his body, flying back onto his back and scrambling backward. Which offers him no solace either, you bend over, pinching his ear.

“Edwin,” you are out of breath but there’s no anger on you face, just worry as you yanks him to his feet, “5 bloody minutes, you couldn’t wait,” he winces along with Edwin when you yank at his ear, “Go find father, if you’re lucky he won’t tan both our hides,” pushing him back towards the way you had come.

“He’s a willful boy, I imagine,” he finally finds his voice, watching you attempt to wipe the mud off your skirts and only succeed at smearing it.

But you smile, he couldn’t imagine then why. Most of the women he had met would be angry at the state of themselves in front of the town’s well known Army captain and bachelor. Or at their brother for it all. You are neither.

“He really is. And yet he’s the easiest of the bunch,” his fingers twitch watching you push your hair back behind your ears, wanting to do it himself, “Thank you, Captain Nicholls.”

“James,” it’s quick, too quick, and it doesn’t go by unnoticed by either of them, “But you know my name, the young boy is Edwin. You must Brigadier Cantor’s daughter.”

You smile had grown, mischievous and almost playful in its nature, “Handsome and smart, no wonder the young women talk so much about you at tea,” his cheeks grew hot, once it would have been at the mention of women speaking about him as if he were an object and not a man of flesh and blood.

You had called him handsome, “You must grow so tired with boring conversation like that.”

“I have,” taking a step backward, both hearing your father’s voice, muffled by distance and the beginning pattering of rain, “Perhaps you will join me for tea sometime then, James? You must have interesting stories.”

“Maybe I shall,” he took a step forward as if to follow you, both knew that would not happen you or now, “And who would I ask for?”

“The lady of the house.”

He had, waiting a week, for the storm to calm. He had begun to spend more time with the other army men in town, there were whispers of war with Germany, and what else could you do but discuss with each other. He had asked his superior for permission to attend tea with his daughter. You had tea, chaperoned of course though by your older brother, which felt almost like being alone. In fact, it was, he would leave with them and arrive back in time to take you back home. As long as you remained out of sight no one would be the wiser. You had been the one to take his hand for the first time and you were the first to kiss him. Just as you had been the one to start their flirtation. He had wanted to ask permission to marry you sooner but he had been sure you father would have put it off. 6 months was a common number and with more than a lot of faked confidence, he asked. Almost expecting the man to say no and instead being chided for not asking sooner.

Then the news came, England would soon be at war with Germany. 3 weeks later you married. Your mother’s wedding dress hastily altered for you taller and thinner frame, his uniform clean and pressed. His family could not be here for the marriage but you would have another ceremony when he arrived back from the war. Always when. You father, mother, and 4 brothers stood by as witness. His home became their home and now that he was gone, he was sure it was becoming more and more you home. James didn’t mind the thought, walking into a home that felt like walking into your arms before he actually did.

Like men are want to do you always asked for more details, the salacious kind. What else was left to ask about? What else could you do but talk about everything you might never experience again? But he never did, you were for him and only him. It didn’t stop him from remembering those nights. The first time had been awkward, uncomfortable for the both of them, neither really quite sure what do besides the basic mechanics their sheltered upbringing had offered them. And then there was your pain, no matter how hard he tried it still had happened. Staining the sheets and leaving them in an awkward moment you seemed unable to break. He was your husband, he didn’t want you to feel like this every time. He wanted you to like the stories he’d heard from other men and the few books he’d snuck peeks at growing up.

He rubbed you, from head to toe, until you were limp, eyes closed, perfect pink lips in a lazy smile. He tried again, letting his lips follow the path his hands had taken. The second time had been better than anything he could describe before and still. Every word and moan that tumbled from your lips music that he would never let himself forget, you fit so well against him, falling into rhythm with him as if their bodies had been made for each other. And each time after it only got better. He had given the help the day off, wanting to spend it alone in the house with his new bride. He hadn’t expected to christen more than a few rooms, both unable to keep their hands off the other for far too long. Even now, it still wasn’t enough. Not enough time.

Their last letters had been sent about 3 months after his leaving, you complained of sickness. Telling him that you were sure you were with child. You were scared, you missed him, you didn’t know how you could do this alone. He wished you didn’t have to. Perhaps you wouldn’t, perhaps you had been wrong. But if not? He sent comfort best he could before breaking the news that letters would no longer be sent or received for their regiment. Security reasons. He would never know, not till he returned. Was he a father? He wanted to be, so desperately. He had dreamed of them, their family, their sons, and daughters. How smart and clever you’d be, headstrong young women and poetic young men. He wanted to be there if he were to be though. Help you through it all, hold their child, raise them.

It’s why he had to make it. Out of this hole, away from the war. Back home. To what? He didn’t know. But he had to get back there. A whistle sounded in the air, a bright flash of fire followed. The world went black quickly, the sounds of crashing followed. He felt wet, cold. He wouldn’t stop thinking of you. If this was to be his last thought, he would think of his sweet lady love.

******

When he wakes you’ve won. He’s suffered a good blow to the head but he’ll live. You ship him home quickly, needing to open beds for the few still being hit by stragglers. There are always a few that hold on. You hold a parade, celebrating the men that had survived and honoring the men that had not. Men like your father, your eldest brother, your cousin’s husband, but not him. He’s alive and well. You’re waiting for him.

But you are not alone. You’ve got a boy clinging to your skirts, his hair is an unruly mess of curls just like yours but you shine blond in the light, big blue eyes so much like his own and speckled with the dancing greens and ambers of yours. The perfect mix of them both, their son.

“Is that him?” he’s excited, looking from his mother to the captain, he can hear him over the shouts of the others, it’s the only thing he can hear.

You nod, he moves quickly, moving in and out of the crowd to them both. You’re crying, doing your best not to sob, not yet anyway. He grabs you around the waist, planting a deep hard kiss on your lips that he never wants to leave and knows he must. As his son scrambles to get his attention, he gives it to him.

“Father,” without a thought he takes him in his arms, nose buried in the crown of his head, “Momma missed you.”

“I missed you,” leaving a light kiss in his wake as he pulled back, “I missed you,” and though you had never met until this moment he felt as if he truly had. No face or name to give the feeling but it had been just as real as thoughts of you.

The boy, for he still did not know his own son’s name for some ungodly reason, looked at him suspiciously, eyes narrowing to slits, as if facing him down. James did not falter, keep his eyes soft, his expression open. It was only a moment or two but it felt as if hours had passed as the child looked him up and down. His mother’s son through and through, he could not have asked for better.

“Jamison,” he finally breaks the silence, “James,” poking his father in the chest, “Jamison,” and repeating the gesture on himself.

“Jamison is a fine name,” wrapping his free arm around his wife’s waist and placing a kiss to his temple, “What do you say we go home?”


End file.
